


Cold Steel

by Johniarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coping, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a soldier. He's brave. He's strong. He carries on after the death of Sherlock Holmes, keeping his head high at work and in public. At home, he's falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Steel

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the IC reflections I did on my John Watson roleplay blog. It's a personal headcanon for my John- I really like the idea of him only showing his weakness when he's alone, before moving out of 221B. In our verse, the first year after the fall was the hardest. John was at his weakest, and did a lot of things that can generally be summed up as 'a bit not good'. Depression, suicidal thoughts, sleeping around with tall, angular, dark-curled men and women... the first year was bad. In the second, he met Mary. And everything changed. 
> 
> Whoa, sorry for the novel on such a short post 0.o

The first time, he was sitting in Sherlock’s bed. 

His lips were wrapped around the barrel, cold steel against his teeth. It had been a week. He kept working at the clinic, kept carrying on in the wake of Sherlock’s death, but it was too much. He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle the strain.

_Send him back to me, ‘cause everyone can see, without him I will be in misery._

In the darkest moment of his life, the Beatles played through his mind, the lyrics warped to reflect his loss. He could hear it with perfect clarity as he looked at the photograph on the nightstand- Sherlock standing beside him, looking bored as John smiled warmly. He missed him, god, he missed him.

There was so much he never said, so much he needed to. Ella tried to coax it out of him (god, he had no idea why he kept seeing her, she was a shit therapist), but he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell Sherlock, so why the hell did she think she was special?

The track in his head changed. He could almost hear the vinyl hiss. 

_Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell? Let me whisper in your ear, say the words you long to hear._

McCartney’s voice began to twist in his mind, dropping octaves, changing pitch. He could almost feel the breath on his ear, almost smell the scent of Sherlock’s expensive aftershave.

_I love you._

_John._

John blinked, tears falling freely. He lowered the Browning, slowly, feeling it slide against his tongue. With disgust, he tossed it against the bed and buried his face in his hands. Sobs wracked his body, and he let them come. Here in the privacy of 221B, no one would see. No one would know.

Know one could tell he was falling apart.

A week later he was back, on his knees in the doorway, the barrel against his temple.

_I don’t want to leave you, don’t want to stay here. You’ve really got a hold on me, you’ve really got a hold on me, baby._

His finger flexed against the trigger. It would be so easy, so bloody easy to just make it stop. 

In the end, he couldn’t do it. Sherlock would have never let him lived it down.

Instead he rose, placing the gun on Sherlock’s nightstand, deciding to go out to the pub to drink his pain away. When he staggered home with a dark-and-curly-haired woman five hours later, pulling her into the dark room, he didn’t notice it was missing.


End file.
